Legends of Ludgate

 

In the old stories they used to speak of a fractured king with two faces. Half flesh, half myth. Folded through artworks and songlines beyond linear time. Buried on the holy hill beside the river, beneath Navahtri's white lantern of stone. An angel of Rhacotis, some say. Or a giant. A winged messenger of dreams bearing the oldest mark; one who was both the end and the beginning. My brothers have never forgotten these stories, but such legends are mere fancies among a plethora now. A panoply of fictions regarding what my people once called the City of Gates. The place of both ways. Libraries and lighthouses.  Navah has other names now, and other histories. Framed and favoured with the blood-dimmed heraldries of officialdom. But there have always been other voices. Alternate histories. Even when raven-touched sorcerers remind men of these things they are often sadly disbelieved. Ignored by those same souls they wish to liberate. The now familiar lies of the Church are offered as an almost instinctive rebuttal.  Lies made holy writ by royal sanction. "There is but one truth, one history, and it was forged by Rome." Oh, Fallen. You know nothing of Rome. Of Peter or Paul. You know so little of true divinity, or art, therefore your grasp of history is tenuous at best. Hear me, and men like me. My brethren are among the Cult of First Dreaming. All Dreaming. Pearls of great price and serpents of the sea.  Those who watched the Watchers even as the war began. There have been a thousand names for London, Shalem and Rome. Countless visions of Albion. And innumerable fires. Sacrifices made ritual. Like a board being cleared of its pieces, being reset. But even these local genocides have crow-like echoes and strange secrets. Many places, becoming one. As I said, the Fallen know little of magic. I don't know everything, of course. But likely I know more than you. My wisdom is debatable, but I studied diligently, and my years have more breadth than I care to admit. Regardless, gates and wings does not an angel make. You need a message. A vision. And believe me, despite my flaws I am a creature of vision indeed. True scholars know that we become what we fear if we're not careful. Do you fear night-wraiths, as I once did? Well, I was once a king among wraiths. A wild gypsy-king standing defiant in the sand before the burnished Mountain of God.  But I was humbled.  Brought to my knees.  This is what it means to be a thing of fractured dreaming. Hear me now, dear ones.  You exist in a false, aberrant chronology. Your most ancient compendiums and memories are counterfeit, or else very partial truths. The splendour and vastness of the myriad, of which you are key, has been hidden from you. Who did this, you ask? Who engineered such darkness? Such sinister oppression? You know who did. The gatekeepers did this, the day they buried the angel alive. On the hill, by the river of Temesh.  You were a keeper of gates once, even if only in dreams. I know you were. I remember you at Rhacotis.  This is nothing new, lost ones. I've said all this before. Souls of great sweetness and depth have revealed all these things to you in various ways. But, I admit, it is a terrifying thing to grasp. A horror to reconcile. That dreaming – reality itself – was hijacked by malevolent, adversarial forces. Satanic forces. The devil wears many faces, say the Christians. Whereas the pagans say that wraiths ruthlessly shape themselves to all expedient folklore, and whisper through the veil to any mortals who can hear them. Both groups are correct, of course. Both have stories worth hearing. You see, I was once a Christian. And a pagan. I am still both, as are you. There is no getting around it, dear ones. You dream and imagine. You are a thing of gates whether you like it or not. A creature of madness and logic. Brothers and sisters, know this. Golgotha weeps at the breadth of your soul's dreaming. As do the circles of stone. Sacrifices were made to keep you intact despite the Fall. Despite the hush that seethed. That which stole your true memories and your birthright. But you are not alone.  Artists and Magi now walk this ruin with you. Marked and marginalised – offering pieces of the old songs in lament. Two faces, both ways. Beyond linear time. And yet, those far less brave than the carpenter or the raven wish to call me a fantasist.  They wish to lecture men like me on the nature of history and dreaming. I would laugh, if not for my brother's weeping. Yeru'shalem, the old ones say of the places of peace. Mira'shalem. Blood is indeed a miracle, as is storytelling and love. Listen to your brother. He knows far more than I do. There are greater kings, unburied. I'm just a scribe. A poet of bold vision but imperfect grammar. I am not the fallen angel of songs redeemed by the sacrifice of sky. I am not the winged one interred on the hill of gates, made bright by the benevolence of his brother. You are, dearest one. Of course you are.  Knowing this secret, a great and dangerous secret, it is my genuine hope that you dream well.